Second Wind

Alex Cartwright is late again, this time to a dinner welcoming her husband's new assistant pastor. And while she's hurrying as fast as she can, chopping vegetables for salad under her husband's withering glare, she's suddenly horrified to see blood spattering everywhere.

She's sliced open her hand, effectively ending her career and her income, on which they depend to live. As her life spins out of control, she must ask a question that's been begging for an answer.

Who comes first when a pastor's wife needs her husband? Her or his mistress, the church?

Excerpt From:

Second Wind

By Nancy Arant Williams

I sighed. At age fifty-two, I, Alex Cartwright, am getting a reputation, and not undeserved, for being rushed, disorganized and annoyingly forgetful. Menopause. I blame it all on menopause. It does nothing for my disposition either.

A very long five minutes later, I pulled into the parking lot of the English Garden Apartments clubhouse. Slinging the garbage bag under my arm, I hauled everything inside in a single trip, pasting on the happy face I knew was expected.

With no way to close the door behind me, I stuck the bread bag between my teeth, hoping no one would notice, and used my foot to kick the door shut with more force than was strictly polite.

A flush ran up my neck as Gabe’s perturbed gaze met mine. I looked away, feeling frustrated. Didn’t he know I’d moved at breakneck speed, trying to get everything done?

I set the garbage bag down on the kitchen floor and edged everything else onto the countertop, watching as my husband made his way toward me. What could possibly be worse than the pastor’s wife, who was always late to church functions? I could think of nothing to top it.

Gabe was suddenly beside me, a deep line furrowing his brow. “Everything all right?” he asked quietly, in a pleasant tone, belying his annoyed look.

I knew the pressure from our church problems made him more demanding and testier than usual, but where would it stop?

“Oh, sure. All I have to do is finish tossing the salad.”

Several ladies joined me and ferried the bread and casserole to their respective places on the serving tables.

“Mmm…” said Maybelle Desmond, as she uncovered the lasagna. “This smells heavenly.”

“Thanks,” I said, with a grateful smile.

Pulling out the breadboard, I upended the garbage bag and let everything roll onto the counter. I grabbed the knife, unwrapped the lettuce and righted the overturned silver bowl that was now wobbling on its rounded bottom, singing a tinny song.

“Honey,” whispered Gabe, “why couldn’t you have made the salad at home?”

“I’m sorry, Sweetheart,” I said in my chirpiest voice. “It’ll be ready in two jiffies, I promise.”

At that moment, I heard instrumental music playing in the background, “Amazing Grace”. Ironic, I thought as I rolled my eyes.

With a wide arm gesture, he herded the group into the large meeting room and announced, “We’ll be ready to eat in short order, folks. For right now, why don’t we ask the blessing on the food and then start the children through the line?”

I felt a tug on my slacks just then and looked down to see the blonde head of three-year old Becky Myerson. She beamed at me in affection, melting my heart.

“Hey, there, little girl,” I said, smiling at her. I had babysat her often enough that she was comfortable with me, always looking for a hug.

After rinsing and drying my hands, I knelt down and took her into my arms, giving her a big hug. “Where’s your Mommy, sweetie?”

She pointed to the other room.

“Well, you’d better get out there before she misses you, okay?”

A smile lit Becky’s big blue eyes as her head bobbed in agreement just before she ran toward the other room. I couldn’t help but smile. She was adorable in pink pants and a pink and white sweater, covered in hearts.

Turning back to the task at hand, I took a deep breath, chopping veggies as fast as I could. I had just sliced the tomato and was dicing it, when I was suddenly horrified to see blood spatter all over the cutting board and the vegetables. Shoving everything into the sink, I snatched a dishtowel from the drainer and wrapped it around my hand, while I rinsed the blood from the vegetables and dumped them into the silver bowl. Funny, I hadn’t felt a thing.

I said nothing as I poured croutons into the mixture and added the entire package of grated cheese. After tossing the mixture, I put the serving pieces in the bowl and turned to Jean Marie Davidson, who was filling a cooler with ice.

Feeling slightly shaky, I said, “I wonder if you could help me, by taking the salad to the table?”

She looked up, smiled and then frowned. “Is everything okay?” she asked, taking the bowl and dressings. “What happened to your hand?”

“Oh, I’m fine. If you don’t mind…” I added, just before sliding to the floor in a heap.

I woke a minute later as someone said, “She’s coming to.”

Gabe had knelt beside me and took the now saturated dishtowel from my hand. “Honey, why didn’t you tell anyone you cut yourself?” He hurriedly replaced it with another towel and held it tightly, applying pressure to the wound.

Feeling a flush of embarrassment at being the center of attention, I murmured, “Oh, it’s okay, I’ll be fine.”

In a deadly quiet tone, he said, “Alex, we called an ambulance. If I hadn’t put pressure on this cut, you would’ve bled out by now. You sliced a vein in your hand.”

“Oh, dear,” I said, feeling even more annoyed at myself. I felt an embarrassed flush crawl up my neck; I absolutely hated being the center of attention.

“Oh dear is right.”

Gabe looked up and gestured at the crowds that had gathered around us. “Please, everyone, just go ahead and enjoy your meal. I’m so sorry about this.”

“Yes, please,” I added lightly “go ahead and carry on. Everything will be fine.”

I tried to sit up, but he forced my shoulders back down with a hand against my chest. “You—stay put.”

I shuddered in embarrassment and pain. “I’m sorry, honey. It was an accident.”

With pursed lips, he shook his head, but said nothing. Shortly, he whispered tersely, “You haven’t even met the new assistant pastor yet. How can I introduce you in this condition?”

I couldn’t help but wonder what kind of assistant pastor would stay out of the kitchen, acting as though nothing had happened, under such obviously extraordinary circumstances.

I shrugged and then laughed, trying to lighten the thick tension. “Well, bring him in so I can shake his hand. I still have one good one left, you know.”

Gabe tilted his head and glared at me over his tiny half glasses. “You think this is funny?”

“No.”

“Listen, you. I need to get in there and host this. So just lie still and wait for the ambulance.”

“Okay,” I said, feeling suddenly tearful.

“Keep pressure on it right here, okay?” he added, putting my fingers over the wound.

With that, he stood, rubbed the side of his face in frustration and walked away.

I felt sick when I realized he had left me lying there alone. I didn’t know how to react. Was a pastor’s wife
allowed to wish her husband would leave his flock to someone else’s care when she needed him? It was a question I hadn’t dared ask myself in twenty-five years. But it could no longer go without an answer.